


Hatchet

by redonthefly



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Gen, Kristoff is scary when he's angry, Look an unnamed OC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 13:56:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1985466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redonthefly/pseuds/redonthefly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>gingerhaole drew a Thing, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the Thing, and this is just a little part of what I wrote about the Thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hatchet

**Author's Note:**

> You can find the Thing here:  
> http://gingerhaole.tumblr.com/post/80492321628/nasubionna-one-of-my-longtime-favorite-artists)

Kristoff eyes him coldly. The wind is whipping his hair into his eyes, and it is beginning to snow: hard and tiny pellets that sting his face and bite his skin.

There is a howl in the air.

The wood handles of the hatchets are warm in his palms, and he pauses, hefts one of them in front of his face, feeling for the balance. The muted light catches the hooked metal and glints; it’s not especially sharp – the blade is nicked in places, and clearly hasn’t been cleaned well since its last use – but it’s pleasantly, tangibly heavy.

He tosses it up, up, and it spins evenly: two rotations, three – then snatches the tang easily again and smirks. They would do.

The snow crunches under his boots; it’s the only human sound besides the other man’s rapid wheezing.

“You took me from my home.”

Toss. Spin. Catch.

“You took me from my wife. You took me from my children.”

One step. Another.

The man before him pales further – his face has turned ashy white with pain, pupils dilated against bloodshot eyes. He scrambles, tries to move away and can’t; his left leg is set at an odd angle. The remains of the once-fine wool coat is dabbed here and there with growing spots of blood, and has fallen open to reveal a linen shirt, dark with sweat. Scratches on his palms leave red and dirty streaks in the snow.

Kristoff pauses again, taking a moment to savor the look of panic in the other man’s eyes. Something in his head it thrumming – different from the throbbing before – a white noise that focuses sharply on the figure on the ground, and the weight of the hatchets. 

“So.” He raises them, feels the contraction in his arms and shoulders, the peculiar hum of energy in his fingertips. His feet are firm in the ice.

“Is there anything you want to say.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, but sends them flying – one right after the other in heady, swirling pinwheels of steel.

They meet their mark with heavy thud thuds – buried deep, handles quivering, blades resting firmly in their target.


End file.
